Seeing Sami Again

He stood, wearing an apron, in the doorway of the Lebanese coffee house.

“Sami?” I asked. He was the Sami who used to bring the morning brioche, croissants and pain de chocolate with the good black chocolate to my old company. In chatting he was surprised I had visited his home town of Homs in Syria. Soon I would learn a greeting in Arabic from my Syrian neighbour to greet him as I bought my breakfast, then he would teach me a new word to take back to her.

Our exchanges were simple, but enough to astonish a co-worker, who said, “I didn’t know you could speak Arabic too.” Sami lied and said I spoke it quite well. The co-worker who had been unimpressed told others I spoke Arabic. Fortunately no one else at the company did and Sami and I guarded the secret of my limited vocabulary although unlike French, I am told I do pronounce it well.

He disappeared, falling out with his boss, who replaced him. His boss’s relation to personal hygiene was shaky at best and my Arabic exchanges came to an end.

“I spent the last two years in Canada,” he told me. He is now trying to increase business in the café by serving hummous, taboulli, kibbeh…foods I love and have eaten so often with my forner Syrian neighbor. I made a mental note to eat at the coffee house soon.

Marhaba, Qui Fac, Shukren, Afwan. Hello, how are you, thank you and you are welcome. It comes back.